TWO IN A TAXI
Something over eighteen hours later the morning train from New York
pulled up at Alton station and disgorged a tumultuous throng of youths
of all sizes and of all ages between twelve and twenty. They piled
down from the day coaches and descended more dignifiedly from the two
parlor cars to form a jostling, noisy mob along the narrow platform.
Suit-cases, kit-bags, valises, tennis rackets, golf clubs were
everywhere underfoot. Ahead, from the baggage car, trunks crashed or
thudded to the trucks while an impatient conductor glanced frowningly
at his watch. Behind the station the brazen clanging of the gongs on
the two special trolley cars punctuated the babel, while the drivers
of taxicabs and horse-drawn vehicles beckoned invitingly for trade
and added their voices to the general pandemonium. Then, even as
the train drew on again, the tumult lessened and the throng melted.
Some few of the arrivals set forth afoot along Meadow street, having
entrusted their hand luggage to friends traveling by vehicle. A great
many more stormed the yellow trolley cars, greeting the grinning crews
familiarly as Bill or Mike, crowding through the narrow doors and
battling good-naturedly for seats. The rest, less than a score of them,
patronized the cabs and carriages.
Leonard Grant was of the latter. As this was his first sight of Alton
he decided that it would be wise to place the responsibility of
delivering himself and a bulging suit-case to Alton Academy on the
shoulders of one who knew where the Academy was, even if it was to cost
a whole half-dollar! The taxi was small but capable of accommodating
four passengers at least, and when Leonard had settled himself therein
it became evident that the driver of the vehicle had no intention
of leaving until the accommodations were more nearly exhausted. He
still gesticulated and shouted, while Leonard, his suit-case up-ended
between his knees, looked curiously about and tried to reconcile the
sun-smitten view of cheap shops and glaring yellow brick pavement
with what he had learned of Alton from the Academy catalogue. Judging
solely from what he now saw, he would have concluded that the principal
industries of the town were pressing clothes and supplying cheap meals.
He was growing sensible of disappointment when a big kit-bag was thrust
against his knees and a second passenger followed it into the cab.
“Mind if I share this with you?” asked the new arrival. He had a
pleasant voice, and the inquiry was delivered in tones of the most
perfect politeness, but something told Leonard that the big fellow
who was making the cushion springs creak protestingly really cared
not a whit whether Leonard minded or not. Leonard as courteously
replied in the negative, and in doing so he had his first glimpse of
his companion. He was amazingly good-looking; perhaps fine-looking
would be the better term, for it was not only that his features were
as regular as those on a Greek coin, but they were strong, and the
smooth tanned skin almost flamboyantly proclaimed perfect health. In
fact, health and physical strength fairly radiated from the chap. He
was tall, wide-shouldered, deep-chested, and yet, in spite of his
size, which made Leonard feel rather like a pygmy beside him, you were
certain that there wasn’t an ounce of soft flesh anywhere about him.
He had dark eyes and, although Leonard couldn’t see it just then, dark
hair very carefully brushed down against a well-shaped head. He was
dressed expensively but in excellent taste: rough brownish-gray tweed,
a linen-colored silk shirt with collar to match, a plain brown bow-tie,
a soft straw hat, brown sport shoes and brown silk socks. The watch on
his wrist was plainly expensive, as were the gold-and-enamel links in
his soft cuffs. What interested Leonard Grant more than these details
of attire, however, was the sudden conviction that he knew perfectly
well who his companion was--if only he could remember!
Meanwhile, evidently despairing of another fare, the driver climbed to
his seat and set forth with loud grinding of frayed gears, cleverly
manipulating the rattling cab around the end of the nearer trolley car
and dodging a lumbering blue ice-wagon by a scant four inches. Then the
cab settled down on the smooth pavement and flew, honking, along Meadow
street.
“Are you an Alton fellow?” inquired Leonard’s companion as they emerged
from the jam. He spoke rather slowly, rather lazily, enunciating each
word very clearly. Leonard couldn’t have told why he disliked that
precision of speech, but he did somehow.
“Yes,” he answered. “And I suppose you are.”
The other nodded. There was nothing really supercilious about that
nod; it merely seemed to signify that in the big chap’s judgment
the question was not worthy a verbal reply. As he nodded he let his
gaze travel over Leonard and then to the scuffed and discolored and
generally disreputable suit-case, a suit-case that, unlike the kit-bag
nearby, was not distinguished by bravely colored labels of travel.
The inspection was brief, but it was thorough, and when it had ended
Leonard knew perfectly that no detail of his appearance had been
missed. He became uncomfortably conscious of his neat but well-worn
Norfolk suit, his very unattractive cotton shirt, his second-season
felt hat, his much-creased blue four-in-hand tie, which didn’t
match anything else he had on, and his battered shoes whose real
condition the ten-cent shine he had acquired in the New York station
couldn’t disguise. It was evident to him that, with the inspection,
his companion’s interest in him had died a swift death. The big,
outrageously good-looking youth turned his head toward the lowered
window of the speeding cab and not again did he seem aware of Leonard’s
presence beside him.
Leonard didn’t feel any resentment. The big fellow was a bit of a
swell, and he wasn’t. That was all there was to it. Nothing to be
peeved at. Doubtless there’d be others of the same sort at the Academy,
and Leonard neither expected to train with them or wanted to. What did
bother him, though, was the persistent conviction that somewhere or
other he had seen the big chap before, and all the way along Meadow
street he stole surreptitious glances at the noble profile and racked
his mind. So deep was he in this occupation that he saw little of the
town; which was rather a pity, since it had become far more like his
preconceived conception of it now; and the cab had entered the Meadow
street gate of the Academy grounds and was passing the first of the
buildings before he was aware that he had reached his destination. He
would have been more interested in that first building had he known
that it was Haylow Hall and that he was destined to occupy a certain
room therein whose ivy-framed window stared down on him as he passed.
The driver, following custom, pulled up with disconcerting suddenness
at the entrance of Academy Building, swung off his seat, threw open
the door on Leonard’s side and wrested the battered suit-case from
between the latter’s legs. Then he as swiftly transferred Leonard’s
half-dollar from the boy’s fingers to his pocket and grabbed for the
distinguished kit-bag beyond. Leonard, unceremoniously thrust into
a noonday world dappled with the shadows of lazily swaying branches
and quite unfamiliar, took up his bag and instinctively ascended
the steps. There were other youths about him, coming down, going up
or just loitering, but none heeded him. Before he reached the wide,
open doorway he paused and looked back. Straight away and at a slight
descent traveled a wide graveled path between spreading trees, its far
end a hot blur of sunlight. At either side of the main path stretched
green sward, tree dotted, to the southern and northern boundaries of
the campus. Here and there a group of early arrivals were seated or
stretched in the shade of the trees, coolly colorful blots against the
dark green of the shadowed turf. Two other paths started off below him,
diverging, one toward a handsome building which Leonard surmised to be
Memorial Hall, holding the library and auditorium, the other toward the
residence of the Principal, Doctor Maitland McPherson, or, in school
language, “Mac.” Each of these structures stood close to the confines
of the campus; the other buildings were stretched right and left,
toeing the transverse drive with military precision; Haylow and Lykes,
dormitories, on the south flank; Academy Building in the center: Upton
and Borden, dormitories, too, completing the rank. Somewhere to the
rear, as Leonard recalled, must be the gymnasium and the place where
they fed you; Lawrence Hall, wasn’t it? Well, this looked much more
like what he had expected, and he certainly approved of it.
He went on into the restful gloom of the corridor, his eyes for the
moment unequal to the sudden change. Then he found the Office and took
his place in the line before the counter. He had to wait while three
others were disposed of, and then, just as his own turn came, he heard
at the doorway the pleasant, leisurely voice of his late companion in
the cab. There was another boy with him, a tall, nice-appearing chap,
who was saying as they entered: “You’re in Upton, with a fellow named
Reilly, who plays half for us. It’s a good room, Renneker, and you’ll
like Red, I’m sure.”
“Thanks.” The other’s voice was noncommittal.
Leonard, moving past the desk, turned swiftly and stared with surprise
and incredulity. He remembered now. Last November he had gone up to
Philadelphia to see a post-season football game between a local team
and an eleven from Castle City, Long Island. The visitors had won by
the margin of one point after a slow and gruelling contest. Leonard’s
seat had been close to the visiting team’s bench and a neighbor had
pointed out to him the redoubtable Renneker and told him tales of
the big fellow’s prowess. Leonard had had several good looks at the
Castle City star and had admired him, just as, later, he had admired
his playing. Renneker had proved all that report had pictured him: a
veritable stone wall in defense, a battering ram in attack. He had
worn down two opponents, Leonard recalled, and only the final whistle
had saved a third from a like fate. As Leonard had played the guard
position himself that fall on his own high school team he watched
Renneker’s skill and science the more interestedly. And so this was
Renneker! Yes, he remembered now, although in Philadelphia that day the
famous player had been in togs and had worn a helmet. It is always a
satisfaction to finally get the better of an obstinate memory, and for
the first moment or two succeeding his victory Leonard was so immersed
in that satisfaction that he failed to consider what the arrival
of Gordon Renneker at Alton Academy would mean to his own football
prospects. When he did give thought to that subject his spirits fell,
and, rescuing his suit-case, he went out in search of Number 12 Haylow
Hall with a rueful frown on his forehead.
Leonard was only seventeen, with little more than the size and weight
belonging to the boy of that age, and he had told himself all along
that it was very unlikely he would be able to make the Alton team that
fall. But now he realized that, in spite of what he had professed to
believe, he had really more than half expected to win a place on the
eleven this season. After all, he had done some pretty good work last
year, and the high school coach back in Loring Point had more than
once assured him that by this fall he ought to be able to pit himself
against many a lineman older and heavier. “Get another twenty pounds on
you, Len,” Tim Walsh had said once, “and there’s not many that’ll be
able to stand up to you in the line. I’ll give you two years more, son,
and then I’ll be lookin’ for your name in the papers. There’s lots of
fellows playing guard that has plenty below the neck, but you’ve got it
above, too, see? Beef and muscle alone didn’t ever win a battle. It was
brains as did it. Brains and fight. And you’ve got both, I’ll say that
for you!”
And then, just a week ago, when Leonard had gone to bid Tim good-by,
the little coach had said: “I’m sorry to lose you, Len, but you’ll be
getting a bigger chance where you’re going. Sure. And you’ll be getting
better handlin’, too. Take those big schools, why, they got trainers
that knows their business, Len, and you’ll be looked after close and
careful. Here a fellow has to do his own trainin’, which means he don’t
do none, in spite of all I say to him. Sure. You’ll do fine, son. Well,
so long. Don’t put your name to nothin’ without you read it first. And
don’t forget what I been tellin’ you, Len: get ’em before they get you!”
Well, he hadn’t put on that twenty pounds yet, for in spite of all
his efforts during the summer--he had gone up to his uncle’s farm and
worked in the field and lived on the sort of food that is supposed to
build bone and tissue--he was only seven pounds heavier than when he
had weighed himself a year ago. And now here was this fellow Renneker
to further dim his chances. Leonard sighed as he turned in at the
doorway of the dormitory building. If there were eleven guards on a
football team he might stand a show, he thought disconsolately, but
there were only two, and one of the two would be Gordon Renneker! He
wondered what his chance with the scrubs would be!
He tugged his heavy suit-case up one flight of stairs in Haylow and
looked for a door bearing the numerals 12. He found it presently,
cheered somewhat to observe that it was toward the campus side of the
building. It was closed, and a card thumb-tacked to the center bore the
inscription, “Mr. Eldred Chichester Staples.” Leonard read the name a
second time. That “Chichester” annoyed him. To have a roommate named
Eldred might be borne, but “Chichester”-- He shook his head gloomily as
he turned the knob and pushed the door open. It seemed to him that life
at Alton Academy wasn’t starting out very well for him.
He was a bit relieved to find the room empty, although it was evident
enough that Eldred Chichester Staples had already taken possession.
There were brushes and toilet articles atop one of the two slim
chiffoniers, books on the study table, photographs tacked to the
wainscoting, a black bag reposing on a chair by the head of the
left-hand bed, a pair of yellow silk pajamas exuding from it. Leonard
set his own bag down and walked to the windows. There were two of
them, set close together, and they looked out into the lower branches
of a maple. Directly below was the brick foot-path and the gravel
road--and, momentarily, the top of an automobile retreating toward the
Meadow street gate. Some fortunate youth had probably arrived in the
family touring car. Leonard had to set one knee on a comfortably broad
window-seat to get the view, and when he turned away his knee swept
something from the cushion to the floor. Rescuing it, he saw that it
was a block of paper, the top sheet bearing writing done with a very
soft pencil. With no intention of doing so, he read the first words:
“Lines on Returning to My Alma Mater.” He sniffed. So that was the sort
this fellow Chichester was! Wrote poetry! Gosh! He tossed the tablet
back to the window-seat. Then the desire to know how bad the effort
might be prompted him to pick it up and, with a guilty glance toward
the door, read further. There were many erasures and corrections, but
he made out:
“Oh, classic shades that through the pleasant years
Have sheltered me from gloomy storm and stress,
See on my pallid cheeks the happy tears
That tell a tale of banished loneliness.”
“What sickening rot!” muttered Leonard. But he went on.
“Back to your tender arms! My tired feet
Stand once again where they so safely stood.
Could I want fairer haven, fate more sweet?
Could I? _Oh, boy, I’ll say I could!_”
Leonard re-read the last line doubtfully. Then he pitched the effusion
violently back to the cushion.
“Huh!” he said.